


And Each Man...

by calime



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-01-06
Updated: 2007-01-06
Packaged: 2017-10-12 09:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/calime/pseuds/calime
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I suppose I watched "Innocence" too much, or I can blame the fact that I used to know the "Ballad of Reading Gaol" by heart.<br/>Takes place during Buffy season 2 ep "Innocence". The quote in the beginning is straight from the episode.<br/>Poem quoted is<a>The Ballad of Reading Gaol, by Oscar Wilde</a><br/>So, in the words of two dead Irishmen (and Drusilla, who knows Angelus so well)...<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	And Each Man...

**Author's Note:**

> Sincere thanks go to [](http://sparklebutch.livejournal.com/profile)[**sparklebutch**](http://sparklebutch.livejournal.com/) and [](http://ceruleancat.livejournal.com/profile)[**ceruleancat**](http://ceruleancat.livejournal.com/) for beta and advice and support. Also, for pimping. Everything that is still wrong is my fault:)

  
_**Angelus** : Spike, my boy, you *really* don't get it! Do you? You tried to kill her, but you couldn't. Look at you. You're a wreck! She's stronger than any Slayer you've ever faced. Force won't get it done. You gotta work from the inside. To kill this girl ... you have to love her._

Spike smiled, an appreciative, secret smile and drawled, "For each man kills the thing he loves ..." There was mockery in his voice that - for a reason Angelus preferred not to dwell on - failed to reach his eyes.

Later, in the lazy sated predawn, with Spike curled up by his side and Drusilla lying with her head on his chest, the words of the dead Irishman came back to whisper quietly in his head.

 _Yet each man kills the thing he loves ..._

He reached to comb through Dru's dark locks with his fingers in the unspoken rhythm of the cadenzas. Lovely, deadly, dead.

 _The kindest use a knife, because  
The dead so soon grow cold._

The harsh lamplight broke on the sleek surface of the hair and for a moment it appeared not dark chestnut, but light wheat under his hand.

Angelus smiled. He was not a kind man. He had never been known for that particular trait.


End file.
